


dead before midnight

by maquira



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (eventually) - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, Hanahaki AU, Hanahaki Disease, Heavy Angst, In Character, M/M, Pining, Pining Harry Potter, Sick Character, Slow Burn, Time Skips, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2020-11-08 04:15:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20829245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maquira/pseuds/maquira
Summary: It all started with a diary.Six years of unrequited love for a monster.. . .His lips began to tremble, almost as badly as his fingers — which threatened to rake down his face and leave bloody trails in their wake, much like the petals he could still feelclinging to his teeth—Scarlet, slitted eyes flashed in his mind’s eye.Harry thrust his eyes into the palms of his hands andscreamed.(A Hanahaki Disease AU)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Luxis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luxis/gifts).

> Alright, here we go — the first of a series of angsty fics I've been writing as a "rebound" from KBS (which I will be updating soon, I promise). This is my attempt at writing a believable, canon-esque, in-character (or as much as possible) harrymort, and I'm following canon/borrowing quotes all over the place. I hope you guys like it! 
> 
> Written for the multi-talented, intelligent, and kind Ava Luxis — who happens to be a sucker for angst. Also, this is betaed by her because I can't survive without her beta skills :joy:. <3

_ (Harry didn’t want to remember. But he didn’t have a choice—) _

He sat on his four-poster bed, observing the thin black diary that Lucius had dumped into Ginny’s cauldron days ago.

_ Curiosity. Distrust. _

Harry couldn’t say which one had caused him to notice the little black book with golden calligraphy along its spine. Perhaps it had been a combination of both that had caused him to reach inside Ginny’s cauldron and take what was neither his, nor hers, nor — apparently — Lucius Malfoy’s.

_ Tom M. Riddle. _

The words glittered up at him, shining as brilliantly as they had in Diagon Alley.

And just like last time, Harry didn’t resist the temptation to pick it up.

_ (“No!” Harry wanted to scream, powerless to stop the memory of himself reaching for the diary.) _

His fingers grazed the textured binding as he ran his hands across the leather cover, lifting it and flicking through the diary’s blank pages. He pulled a new bottle out of his bedside cabinet, dipped his quill into it, and dropped a blot onto the first page.

The ink shone brightly on the paper for a second before vanishing, as though sucked into the page. After a moment of surprise, Harry excitedly loaded his quill a second time and wrote,

“My name is Harry Potter.”

The words gleamed momentarily on the page and they, too, sank without a trace. Then, at last, something happened.

_ “Hello, Harry Potter. My name is Tom Riddle. How did you come by my diary?” _

Harry stared at the words appearing on the page in his very own ink, too stunned to write anything.

_ (Don’t do it. Don’t respond, don’t—) _

As the words began to fade away, Harry quickly scribbled back.

“Someone dropped it into my friend’s cauldron.”

He waited eagerly for Riddle’s reply.

_ “I see. A friend of yours, perhaps?” _

Harry’s eyebrows raised in surprise as he answered, “Definitely not.” He paused his quill before continuing to let on the thoughts that had been swirling in his mind, bothering him for a while. “And he definitely dropped it on purpose.”

Because there were so many ways to get rid of a book besides dropping it in an eleven-year-old’s cauldron. But the more Harry thought about it, the more _ purposeful _Lucius Malfoy’s actions seemed. He remembered the malicious intent in those pale eyes, clear as day…

_ “Luckily, I recorded my memories in some more lasting way than ink. But I already knew that there would be those who would not want this diary read.” _

“What do you mean?” Harry scrawled rapidly, blotting the page in his anticipation.

Riddle’s reply came after a pause, his fine calligraphy a sharp contrast to Harry’s own increasingly messy handwriting.

_ “I mean that this diary holds memories of great and terrible things. Secrets that were fated never to be discovered until you, Harry Potter, came across it.” _

Harry’s eyes widened, his chest thumping the slightest bit faster.

There was something enthralling about the way Tom Riddle phrased his words. They were as pretty as his penmanship, and Harry found himself clinging to every letter.

_ “But first… tell me about yourself.” _

Harry paused abruptly, narrowing his eyes warily at the diary in his possession. But he was already intrigued, he’d already made up his mind. And with his quill in hand, he began to write back. 

(_ Don’t fall for it, Harry thought desperately. But his warning was a mere whisper against the call of his nightmares… of his darkest memories…) _

The memory faded to black. And suddenly, a soft, cruel voice was corrupting the memory of those beguiling remarks from Harry’s past, overlapping one another and showering him with an attention Harry could have never dreamed he would _ want so badly _—

_ “Tell me more about yourself.” _

_ “1992?” _

_ “Youngest seeker in a century. Impressive…” _

_ “You’ve been so brave, Harry.” _

All that admiration, all that affection… all for naught.

A tall, handsome, black-haired boy was leaning against the nearest pillar, watching him. He was strangely blurred around the edges, as though Harry were looking at him through a misted window. But there was no mistaking him.

“A memory,” said Riddle quietly. “Preserved in a diary for fifty years.” He straightened up from the pillar and began to pace, his half-solid heels beginning to click against stone.

Harry lay on the floor of the chamber, barely staying conscious. His weakened limbs refused to move. Tears streamed down his cheeks, equal parts hurt and frustration, and bile threatened to crawl up his throat as Riddle stalked closer to him.

This boy, whom he had trusted with his innermost insecurities and deepest desires.

Riddle was still watching him, idly twirling Harry’s wand between his long fingers. A smile curled at the corners of his mouth as he continued to stare at Harry, running his tongue along his upper teeth before continuing to speak.

“Haven’t I already told you,” Riddle murmured, “that killing Mudbloods doesn’t matter to me anymore? For many months now, my new target has been — you.”

He waved his wand, unscrambling letters that should never have been scrambled in the first place—

_ Tom Marvolo Riddle. _

_ I am Lord Voldemort. _

Even in his weakened state, Harry couldn’t hold back a gasp of horror.

And then the older boy laughed, a high, cold sound that shouldn’t have suited him but somehow _ did, _ perfectly. It was high like the tinkling of bells, with a cool, metallic undertone. It made the hairs stand up on the back of Harry’s neck, but it also made his stomach flutter with an unnamable sensation, even after _ everything _.

Riddle vanished the letters, turning those piercing eyes on him.

There was an odd red gleam in his hungry eyes now as he stepped even closer, his half-solid feet threatening to step on Harry’s fingers. To break them, like they had already _ broken _him.

“I’m going to sit here and watch you die, Harry Potter.” His lips curled softly once more, the prettiest thing in the chamber. “Take your time. I’m in no hurry.”

Harry’s body convulsed again, holding back a sob. Even now, he found Tom Riddle’s offhand, morbid sense of humor almost endearingly charming, and it hurt _ so much. _

_ Hurt. Betrayal. _

God, it _ burned. _Every breath set his lungs on fire.

“I…” Harry’s voice was hoarse, his throat clenching excruciatingly around every syllable. When he spoke again, it was barely a whisper. “I loved you.”

_ (Idiot. Shut up, shut up, shut up—) _

Riddle raised his eyebrows at the boy beneath him, his smile twitching downwards in the ghost of a condescending sneer.

“Silly boy. You are not even old enough to know what love is.”

He began to finger his wand threateningly, as if pondering whether to simply end Harry’s existence right then.

But Harry wasn’t done.

“I… _ cared _for you,” he insisted, before breaking into dry coughs that hurt every part of his body.

Riddle’s eyes flashed with impatience. “Mere infatuation. You fell for a _ lie, _ like every other _ … _” He trailed off.

Every other… what?

But Riddle didn’t give him any more time to think, because then he was pointing Harry’s wand directly at him, his eyes darkening with the intent to _ kill— _

He lowered his wand, thinking better of it.

Riddle began to hiss.

_ “Speak to me, Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts Four.” _

And finally, as the great big Basilisk emerged from the hole in the statue, Harry was struck with the realization that no one was coming to save him… that he would have to save himself.

Somehow mustering the strength to lift himself, he raised the hand that held Gryffindor’s sword and charged.

_ (Blood—hissing—teeth biting—he couldn’t tell his arm from Gryffindor’s sword… couldn’t tell Riddle from Slytherin’s Basilisk…) _

And once he’d defeated the great snake, Harry was unable to prevent himself from looking at Riddle.

To see if he was _ angry. _

(To see if he was _ awed. _)

Riddle looked at Harry, unfazed as ever. “It makes no difference. In fact, I prefer it this way. Just you and me, Harry Potter… you and me…”

_ You… and… me… _

Harry thrust the basilisk’s fang into the diary, and a look of horror and outrage washed over Riddle’s handsome features.

_ “What have you done?” _hissed a desperate voice… the words of a dying creature struggling to survive against the odds.

Time seemed to stop as Harry turned once again to face his captor, still gripping the bloody fang.

_ (He was powerless to watch as nightmares infected his memories.) _

Suddenly, those handsome features twisted inhumanly, growing vicious and ugly. Riddle’s skin grew paler by the second, his nose flattening against his skull. His eyes flashed a horrifying red, and his black, slitted pupils came closer and closer until the only sight visible was—

_ Darkness. _

All motion stopped. The Chamber disappeared as complete nothingness surrounded him.

And then Harry was _ flying. _

He was soaring through a starless night sky, past a broken window and into a dark room containing nothing but a decrepit chair.

_ (When did this start to feel less like a… dream…?) _

A hunching figure kneeled at its feet, sobbing and wheezing uncontrollably.

“Now, Wormtail,” came a chilling, high-pitched voice, far colder than any voice he’d ever heard, “perhaps one more little reminder why I will not tolerate another blunder from you…”

“My Lord…” implored a faraway voice, echoing pitifully down the gloomy passageways of the house. “No… I beg you…”

_ “Crucio!” _

Harry screamed, the scar on his forehead searing with pain—

. . . 

“Harry! _ Harry! _”

Harry opened his eyes. 

He was lying on the floor of Professor Trelawney’s room, curled into a fetal position. His vision grew blurry when he blinked, his eyes watering from the intensity with which his scar continued to burn.

He shivered inwardly, tensing upon the cold floor. The pain of the _ Cruciatus _ had felt real. But the vivid memory of Riddle’s words had been far worse. Beguiling and beautiful, sharp and _ cutting— _

“You all right?” Ron asked, kneeling next to him, his voice hushed and terrified.

It was then that Harry realized the whole class was standing around him.

“Of course, he isn’t!” Professor Trelawney declared, pushing her way towards Harry with great excitement. She gazed at him intently with wide eyes. “What was it, Potter? A premonition? An apparition? What did you see?”

“Nothing,” Harry lied, sitting up and wiping sweat from his brow. He could feel himself shaking at the diary’s words, which had been more memory than nightmare if he was perfectly honest…

_ No. Forget, _he ordered himself. He willed himself to once again suppress the events that had occurred nearly two years ago… events he still struggled to move past…

Harry found that remembering Dumbledore’s words from back then helped, sometimes.

_ “You were the victim,” Dumbledore said firmly, his eyes not leaving Harry’s for a moment. “You are immensely brave, and strong-willed, to have escaped on your own as you did.” _

Most of the time, they didn’t.

_ Brave. _

Harry couldn’t help but flinch at the memory of that word, reminded of how the diary Tom Riddle had once complimented him for that same quality.

_ “Lord Voldemort is a mastermind manipulator; far older and wiser wizards have been hoodwinked by him…” _

Amused, burgundy eyes and a charming smile flashed in his mind’s eye, forever unforgotten, making Harry feel weak, making him feel utterly _ disgusted _with himself—

Then that high, bell-like laughter was ringing in his ears and—God, Harry was going to be _ sick. _

_ Why couldn’t he just forget? _

He sucked in his breath, clenching a hand against his crawling stomach. His throat throbbed familiarly as he swallowed, saliva oozing down his sandpaper lungs.

Emotions he’d so long ago resolved to never feel for that _ object _continued to relentlessly attack him, slithering back into Harry’s subconscious—

“I need to go to the hospital wing, I think,” he said quietly to no one in particular, his eyes darting towards the door. “Bad headache, and my throat’s a bit—”

“My dear, you were undoubtedly stimulated by the extraordinary vibrations of my room!” Professor Trelawney clasped her hands together in excitement. “If you leave now, you may lose the opportunity to see further than you ever have before—”

“I don’t want to see anything except a headache cure,” Harry interrupted curtly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

As he stood up, the class backed away. They all looked unnerved.

“See you later,” Harry muttered to Ron, ignoring Professor Trelawney’s expression of great frustration as he picked up his bag and heading straight to Dumbledore’s office.

There were far more important matters at hand than a sore throat.

. . . 

Breakfast was a very noisy affair at the Gryffindor table on the morning of the Triwizard Tournament’s third task. Post owls appeared, bringing Harry a good-luck card from Sirius—a piece of parchment bearing a muddy paw print on its front.

None of the rush distracted the trio from discussing yesterday’s events in hushed voices.

“So you had a dream,” Ron started, his features tightening, “about You-Know-Who torturing… torturing Pettigrew.” He shook his head, his brows furrowing. “What does that mean?”

“What does Professor Dumbledore think?” Hermione asked as she leaned forward on the table, her eggs and books long-since abandoned. “Is _ He _ …” her voice dropped to a whisper, “getting _ stronger? _”

Harry sighed, pushing his plate back and looking at them. “Not sure. All Dumbledore told me was that he thinks my scar hurts when Voldemort is near me, or when he’s feeling a particularly strong surge of hatred.”

Ron paled. “Near you?”

Harry looked down at the wooden desk. “I… I don’t know. It’s all just theory at this point.”

He didn’t tell them how Dumbledore had supported his theory with _ proof… _that the years of Voldemort’s ascent to power had been marked with disappearances. Bertha Jorkins’ in Albania, Mr. Crouch, within Hogwarts grounds…

“Did you see anything else?” Ron asked, both of them continuing to look at him earnestly. 

Harry’s mind blanked, his throat going dry. All of a sudden, their stares felt intrusive.

“No.” His response had been short, fast enough for Ron and Hermione to catch his lie and continue to stare at him intently.

Harry bit his lower lip, running a hand through his wild locks. “Just… same old.” He cleared his throat, his voice dropping to a lower pitch. “Chamber stuff.”

He tensed and braced himself, anticipating their looks of pity even before looking up.

Ron was looking back down at his plate, staring hard at its contents with an expression of helplessness. And Hermione was looking straight at him, her eyebrows furrowed with boundless concern.

“Oh, _ Harry… _ ” Hermione said softly, her expression gentle and cautious. 

Harry gave a mirthless laugh, shaking his head self-deprecatingly. Merlin, he should have just stuck with the lie. There had been no need to remind his friends of the ordeal from their second year…

Even if he had spent years repressing, remembering, _ pining _ and _ wanting _ and _ hating himself— _

Harry’s hands clenched beneath the table as he stopped himself from clutching at his own head. His throat burned, as if he’d just finished screaming at the top of his lungs. Why of all days did he have to recall everything so vividly the day before the third task? Now, of all times, when he needed to stay focused and aware.

As they were wrapping up breakfast and wishing him good luck, Harry saw Fleur Delacour get up from the Ravenclaw table and join Cedric in a side chamber across from the Great Hall. Krum slouched off to join them shortly afterwards.

The tall, blond-haired seventh year stuck his head out of the chamber, peeking out both ways before catching Harry’s eye.

“Harry, come on! They’re waiting for you to start — we need to get down to the Quidditch field now.”

Harry stood up, grim dread filling his limbs at the thought of what the final task would require of him. 

When they arrived at the Quidditch field, it was completely unrecognizable. A twenty-foot-high hedge ran all the way around the edge of it, unyielding save for a gap at the very front: the recognizable entrance to the vast maze.

Mr. Bagman cast a _ Sonorous _and began to speak. “Ladies and gentlemen! At last, the third and final task of the Triwizard Tournament is here. Champions — we are going to be patrolling the outside of the maze…”

Harry’s eyes widened as he took in the sheer amount of people that had begun to fill the stands, tightening his hand around his wand nervously.

“... and if you encounter any difficulties and wish to be rescued, send red sparks into the air…”

Adrenaline surged through his limbs, blood rushing to his ears as Bagman finished speaking and began to count down.

“So… on my whistle, Harry and Cedric!” said Bagman, calling out the names of the pair tied for first. “Three — two — one —”

He gave a short blast on his whistle, and it was a blur from there.

Harry ran fast, his lit wand held above him. Every few minutes, he would look behind himself, the back of his neck prickling with the sensation of being watched. But if anything was, Harry couldn’t see it—the maze grew darker with each passing minute as the sky overhead deepened to navy, obscuring his vision wherever the hedges didn’t.

“_ Point Me, _” he whispered to his wand, holding it flat in his palm.

Empty paths lured him into a false sense of security. Winding routes were exactly as they seemed.

His heart pounded faster when he heard Fleur scream, a sense of foreboding deepening his lingering fear.

_ One champion down. _

Harry was in the middle of battling an enormous Blast-Ended Skrewt, its thick armor glinting in the light from his wand, when he heard Cedric’s voice.

“What are you doing?” Cedric’s voice yelled, uncharacteristically angry. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

And then Harry heard Krum’s voice.

_ “Crucio!” _

He froze, stunned, as echoes of a cold, chilling voice hissing that exact spell in his nightmares came to him—

Shrieks pierced the air, spinning him into action.

Harry began sprinting up his path, trying to find a way to Cedric. He threw a _ Reducto _at the hedge and shoved his way to the other side through a blackened hole. Krum cut his spell short as soon as he saw Harry, realizing he was outnumbered and beginning to run the other way. But Harry caught him with a stunning spell to the back.

He dashed over to Cedric, who had stopped twitching and was lying panting, his hands over his face.

“Are you alright?” Harry asked roughly, grabbing Cedric’s arm and pulling him up.

“Yeah,” Cedric panted out, his hand grasping at the ground beneath him to find his fallen wand. “Yeah… I don’t believe it… he crept up behind me… and I heard him, I turned around, and he had this wand on me…”

Cedric stood up, his legs visibly shaking as they both looked down at Krum’s fallen form.

“I can’t believe this… I thought he was all right,” Harry whispered raggedly, even as a darker inner voice reminded him that someone_ else _ he’d thought was perfectly all right turned out to be a perfect _ monster… _

He shook his head, clearing perpetual thoughts of _ Him _to the back of his mind. “I suppose we’d better go on.”

They split up, and it wasn’t long before Harry ran into a sphinx—a creature with the body of a lion, tailfeathers of a bird, and head of a woman.

“So… so will you move, please?” Harry asked futilely, knowing what the answer would be.

“No,” she said, continuing to pace. “Not unless you solve my riddle.”

_ Riddle. _

_ Fuck this. _

Harry’s shoulders tensed, his eyes flickering darkly. God, why was he suddenly noticing _ Him _everywhere?

He answered correctly — a “spider” — only to run into Cedric fighting the very creature, albeit Hagrid-sized. Harry shot a spell at the giant spider as well before taking off with the older Hufflepuff.

And they were still together when they reached the very center of the maze.

Cedric came to an abrupt pause, his longing expression clearly visible under the golden light given off by—Harry’s eyes trailed off towards the right—the Triwizard Cup. 

“Take it,” the older boy said quietly.

“No, Cedric,” Harry protested, shaking his head. “You’re the one who—”

“Harry,” Cedric said, more firmly. “Without you I would have been done for.”

Harry recognized Cedric’s determined look. He considered arguing further, but his exhaustion won out. 

“Fine. On three, we’ll grab the cup together, yeah?” Harry confirmed, watching as Cedric nodded hastily before before beginning to count down. “One — two — three —”

As he grasped the handle at the same time as Cedric, Harry felt a jerk somewhere behind his navel. His feet had left the ground, and he found he could not unclench the hand holding the Triwizard Cup.

His world dissolved into swirling color, the wind howling around them.


	2. Chapter 2

The howling wind suddenly died down.

Harry landed back on his feet, slamming against the ground jarringly. The Triwizard Cup fell out of his hands, clattering against the dark scattering of pebbles.

They were in a dark and gloomy graveyard, eerily silent and still save for the wind — a series of soft whispers and hushes rattling the long grass.

And then out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw a short, cloaked figure approach a gravestone near him, a small bundle in hand. 

A cold and strangely familiar voice that seemed to come from nowhere spoke. 

“_Kill the spare. _”

Harry could only stare in horror as a flash of heart-stoppingly familiar green light struck Cedric, leaving him spread-eagle upon the dirt. 

_ Dead, _ his mind supplied him. And then, more frantically — _ Cedric is dead. He died he’s gone he’s — _

Harry grew dazed with horrified shock, barely unaware as the cloaked figure — _ Wormtail, _ he realized soon enough _ — _chained him to a gravestone and placed the bundle into a cauldron, all at the command of the cold voice. 

And as stream arose from the cauldron, opaque and suffocating, Harry realized that the cold voice belonged to none other than the bundled creature.

“Robe me,” said the high, chilling voice from behind the steam.

A thin man stepped out of the cauldron, staring at Harry… and Harry stared back into the face that had haunted his nightmares for three years. Whiter than a skull, with wide, livid scarlet eyes and a nose that was flat as a snake’s with slits for nostrils…

Lord Voldemort had risen again.

Harry could only stare back with bated breath, unable to look away as the man began to examine his own body.

Voldemort caressed his chest with pale spidery fingers, his slitted red eyes jubilantly roaming down his own figure. They gleamed brightly in the darkness, like a cat’s.

Like _Tom’s, _muttered a buried voice in his head. And Harry couldn’t help but remember his nightmare from earlier, in which Riddle’s handsome visage had warped into something exactly like this.

Now, he watched as Voldemort held up his hands and flexed his fingers, his expression rapt and exultant. 

Harry swallowed with revulsion at the monstrous form his nightmare had taken. 

And then Voldemort began to move. 

There was something odd about the way the pale man walked. Anyone who had recently obtained a body after fourteen years might have stumbled, like a colt on weakling legs.

And yet, Voldemort strode with easy confidence, his movements carelessly elegant. His weighted steps were slow and dangerous, and each approaching, barefoot step across the dirt made Harry shudder with fear, made him strain against his chains until the metal bit at his skin.

Fear was taut in his limbs, all thoughts frozen at the surface of his mind. He didn’t know what to make of Voldemort.

But the monstrous man had not a care in the world for his famous vanquisher. His eyes passed over Harry once more, as if he were nothing but another blade of grass, while he slipped one of those unnaturally long-fingered hands into a deep pocket. He drew out his wand, gently caressing it.

And then he raised it, pointing it at Wormtail.

“Hold out your arm,” the man said lazily, and the blonde man held out his stump, tears streaming down his face.

Voldemort tutted lightly. “The _ other _one, Wormtail.”

Pettigrew’s eyes widened. Then, slowly, he extended the other arm even as he sobbed, “M-my Lord, please…” 

Voldemort examined the held-out limb carefully, ignoring Wormtail’s uncontrollable weeping.

“It is back,” he said softly. “They will all have noticed it… and now, we shall see… now we shall know…”

A look of cruel satisfaction painted his face. Voldemort straightened up, threw back his head, and stared around at the dark graveyard.

“How many will be brave enough to return when they feel it?” he whispered, his gleaming red eyes fixed upon the stars. “And how many will be foolish enough to stay away?”

He began to pace up and down before Harry and Wormtail, eyes sweeping the graveyard all the while. After a minute or so, he looked down at Harry again, a cruel smile twisting his snakelike features.

It was a far cry from the charming smiles of his former youth. But at the sight of that cruel smirk, heavy with malicious intent, Harry felt something inside of him curl… felt something in his lungs _ lock… _

“You stand, Harry Potter, upon the remains of my late father,” he hissed softly. “A Muggle and a fool… very like your dear mother. But they both had their uses, did they not? Your mother died to defend you as a child… and I killed my father, and see how useful he has proven himself, in death…”

Voldemort laughed again. Up and down he paced, looking all around himself as he walked. His searing red eyes scanned the surroundings, ever alert. Waiting.

“You see that house upon the hillside, Potter? My father lived there. My mother, a witch who lived here in this village, fell in love with him. But he abandoned her when she told him what she was… He didn’t like magic, my father…”

Nothing on Voldemort’s face gave away a hint of emotion, save for the darkening of his eyes.

“He left her and returned to his Muggle parents before I was ever born, Potter, and she died giving birth to me, leaving me to be raised in a Muggle orphanage… but I vowed to find him… I revenged myself upon him, that fool who gave me his name…”

Voldemort’s mouth curled as he continued, “... _ Tom Riddle… _”

Harry sucked in a gasp and flinched at the sound of that name from_ his _ lips. 

Red eyes locked on him curiously, momentarily. 

Then Voldemort continued to pace, his red eyes darting from grave to grave. “Listen to me, reliving family history…” he said quietly, “why, I am growing quite sentimental… But look, Harry! My _ true _family returns…”

And Harry stayed silent, watching as Death Eaters appeared one-by-one in the graveyard.

When the final and thirteenth one arrived, Voldemort ceased his pacing. His tongue darted out to graze the tips of his canines. His nostrils flared, the redness of his eyes even more pronounced.

“There is a stench of guilt in the air.”

A shiver ran around the circle — as though each member of it longed, but did not dare, to step back from him.

Voldemort tilted his head as he looked at each of his returning followers — slowly, burning each of them with a seemingly omniscient gaze until their eyes fell downwards with shameful submission. 

“I see you all, whole and healthy, with your powers intact,” his voice turned mockingly contemplative, a smile painting his features, “and I ask myself… why did this band of wizards never come to the aid of their master, to whom they swore eternal loyalty?”

No one spoke.

The smile fell from his face.

“And I answer myself,” whispered Voldemort, his soft tone of voice somehow far more menacing, “they must have believed me broken, they thought I was gone. They slipped back among my enemies, and they pleaded innocence, and ignorance, and bewitchment…”

He trailed off amidst firing accusations, his half-lidded eyes burning with a quiet, untouchable fury that finished the gist of his thoughts.

_ Terrifying, _ Harry thought, a different sense of horror dawning on him altogether. _ Far worse than I imagined. _

Because just like Diary Tom Riddle, Lord Voldemort possessed an unparalleled way with words. He started off slowly, rhetorically questioning his followers, before picking up pace as he pointed out their wrongdoings. There was something about the way he spoke, piercing every Death Eater with a knowing look as words fell from his tongue that was… 

_ Horrifically compelling. _

It was easy to see why hordes had once gathered at his feet; even at his most furious, Voldemort was charismatic.

“It is a disappointment to me… I confess myself disappointed…”

“My Lord—” began one of the men.

But it was too late. Voldemort had begun to laugh, and the Death Eater’s fate was already sealed before his master had even raised his wand.

“_Crucio!” _

The Death Eater began to convulse violently, his limbs twisting at odd angles. His screams echoed for miles in the deserted graveyard, lost in the void and howling winds around them.

Voldemort ceased the spell.

The tortured Death Eater lay flat upon the ground, gasping hoarsely. And although he hadn’t been the one tortured, Harry felt a burning in his throat, as if he had been the one screaming all along.

Voldemort was no longer laughing, but Harry could still hear it piercing the cold air, echoing in his head just like it had back in the _ chamber… _

“Get up, Avery,” said Voldemort softly. “Stand up. You ask for forgiveness? I do not forgive. I do not forget. Thirteen long years… I want thirteen years’ repayment before I forgive you. Wormtail here has paid some of his debt already, have you not, Wormtail?”

And Harry, not wanting to listen anymore, closed his eyes. The cadence of his enemy’s speech; the dramatic nature of his words and the cruelty in his actions. His subconscious couldn’t help but draw more and more similarities between the man before him and the Tom Riddle he once… _ ‘knew. _

A broken chuckle slipped past Harry’s lips before he could stop himself, and that was all it took to condemn himself.

Red eyes to snapped to him once more, evaluative and curious. 

Then a grin curled across Voldemort’s lipless mouth. The eyes of the circle followed their master’s, flashing in Harry’s direction.

“Ah, yes.” Voldemort said quietly, mirthfully, his attention finally and unequivocally focused on Harry. “Harry Potter has kindly joined us for my rebirthing party. One might go so far as to call him my guest of honor.”

He walked lazily over to stand next to Harry, so that the eyes of the whole Circle were upon the two of them.

“You know, of course, that they have called this boy my downfall?” Voldemort said softly, his red eyes upon Harry, whose scar began to burn so fiercely that he almost screamed in agony. 

Voldemort raised one of his long white fingers and put it very close to Harry’s cheek. He gazed down at Harry, who found himself breathlessly waiting for what would come.

“His mother left upon him the traces of her sacrifice… This is old magic. I should have remembered it, I was foolish to overlook it… but no matter. I can touch him now.”

Harry felt the cold tip of the long white finger touch him, and for a split-second, he thought his head would burst with the pain. Voldemort laughed softly in his ear before grasping his jaw and forcing it upwards with surprising strength. 

Then he looked away once again, continuing to address the Death Eaters.

“I miscalculated, my friends, I admit it… I was ripped from my body. I was less than a spirit, less than the meanest ghost… but still, I was alive…”

His face was still in Voldemort’s grasp; but for some reason, the pain had begun to disappear.

“Only one power remained to me. I could possess the bodies of others. But I dared not go where other humans were plentiful, for I knew that the Aurors were still abroad and searching for me. I sometimes inhabited animals — snakes, of course, being my preference…” 

Then the pain disappeared altogether, and all that was left was the sensation of his touch: unbearably cold and mind-numbingly, deceptively soft. 

Voldemort’s pale, spidery fingers continued to trace Harry’s features, drawing mindless patterns. His nails scratched softly against Harry’s cheeks and underneath his jaw… 

Harry was shit-scared, his mind was numb. He couldn’t _ think _past the claws just shy of drawing blood at any moment —

“A wizard — young, foolish and gullible — wandered across my path in the forest I had made my home. He was easy to bend to my will… But my plan failed… I was thwarted… thwarted, once again, by Harry Potter…a mere boy… ” 

Voldemort glanced back at him, triumph clear in his eyes. Then his mouth curled at once, slowly and lazily, as he grasped Harry’s face tightly between his thumb and fingers, squishing his features into what must have been a rather stupid-looking fish-face.

The Death Eaters chortled.

Harry saw red.

Something animalistic ignited within him. A burning sort of rage overwhelmed his previously numb senses. And suddenly, Harry very much wished to see Voldemort burning in as much pain as he had been submerged in seconds ago, at the mercy of his lightning scar.

He opened his mouth wider and clamped down on Voldemort’s forefinger, his jaw slamming shut as his teeth dug into pale skin. Then he clenched down, biting harder, deeper — all the while keeping his eyes trained on Voldemort because he didn’t want to miss a single second of his reaction. 

Utter silence. 

A few gasps of horror emanated from the crowd surrounding them, but neither Harry nor his mortal enemy paid them any attention.

Voldemort’s eyes glinted indecipherably in the darkness, his red eyes burning curiously into Harry’s once more. If he felt any pain at all, he didn’t show it. 

And then, instead of ripping his hand out of Harry’s mouth like he’d assumed the man would, Voldemort thrust his captured finger deeper into Harry’s throat, his nails clawing down the back of his tongue.

Harry gagged, his eyes widening in surprise as his head fell back against the gravestone. The Death Eaters released dark chuckles and a couple of whistles, and Harry’s cheeks burned with humiliation as he realized just how suggestive his unwitting actions were.

Voldemort’s eyes were gleaming. “Though, perhaps, he is more _ animal _than boy.”

Something bitter burned in his mouth at the insult. Harry flexed his jaw in response, his fists tightening in their chains. But as if reading his mind, Voldemort tore his finger from Harry’s mouth before he could bite it off.

“Regardless, I will give him his chance. He will be allowed to fight, and you will be left in no doubt which of us is the stronger.” 

Voldemort drew his wand as he spoke his next words. “Now untie him, Wormtail, and give him back his wand.” 

Mere moments later, Harry had been untied and guided to the middle of the circle, where Voldemort paced around him. His injured leg shook under him as he stood in the overgrown grave, clenching his wand tightly in his hands.

“You have been taught how to duel, Harry Potter?” said Voldemort softly, his red eyes glinting through the darkness. 

At those words, Harry remembered the dueling club at Hogwarts he had attended briefly two years ago. All he had learned there was the Disarming Spell… and what use would it be to deprive Voldemort of his wand, even if he could, when he was surrounded by Death Eaters, outnumbered by at least thirty to one? 

“We bow to each other, Harry,” said Voldemort, bending a little, but keeping his snakelike face upturned to Harry. “Come, the niceties must be observed. . . . Dumbledore would like you to show manners. . . . Bow to death, Harry. . . .” 

The Death Eaters were laughing again. Voldemort’s lipless mouth was smiling. Harry did not bow. He was not going to let Voldemort play with him before killing him . . . he was not going to give him that satisfaction. . . . 

“I said, bow,” Voldemort said, raising his wand — and Harry felt his spine curve as though a huge, invisible hand were bending him ruthlessly forward, and the Death Eaters laughed harder than ever. “

Very good,” said Voldemort softly, and as he raised his wand the pressure bearing down upon Harry lifted too. “And now you face me, like a man . . . straight-backed and proud, the way your father died. . . .”

“And now — we duel.” 

Voldemort raised his wand, and before Harry could do anything to defend himself, before he could even move—

“_Crucio!” _

Harry fell to his knees. The pain was so intense, so all-consuming, that he no longer knew where he was. . . . White-hot knives were piercing every inch of his skin, his head was surely going to burst with pain, he was screaming more loudly than he’d ever screamed in his life — 

And then it stopped. Harry rolled over and scrambled to his feet; he was shaking as uncontrollably as Wormtail had done when his hand had been cut off; he staggered sideways into the wall of watching Death Eaters, and they pushed him away, back toward Voldemort. 

“A little break,” said Voldemort, the slit-like nostrils dilating with excitement, “a little pause . . . That hurt, didn’t it, Harry? You don’t want me to do that again, do you?” 

Harry stared back stubbornly, not answering. He would not beg.

And then he continued to stare, utterly caught off-guard. Because Voldemort, with his lightly heaving chest and his glinting red eyes, with his pale skin gleaming in the moonlight… suddenly didn’t look merely monstrous.

He looked _ otherworldly. _Satanic. Terrifying and heart-stoppingly ethereal.

Harry couldn’t _ breathe— _

“I asked you whether you want me to do that again,” said Voldemort softly. “Answer me! _ Imperio_!” 

And Harry felt, for the third time in his life, the sensation that his mind had been wiped of all thought. It was bliss, not to think. He felt as if he were floating, dreaming… 

_ Just answer no . . . say no . . . just answer no. . . . _

_ I will not, _ said a stronger voice, in the back of his head. _ I won’t answer. _

_ Just answer no… _

“I WON’T!” Harry screamed, and the words echoed through the graveyard, and the dream state lifted as though a bucket of water had been splashed over him. 

“You won’t?” said Voldemort quietly, and the Death Eaters were not laughing now. “You won’t say no? Harry, obedience is a virtue I need to teach you before you die. . . . Perhaps another little dose of pain?” 

Voldemort raised his wand, but this time Harry was ready; with the reflexes born of his Quidditch training, he flung himself sideways onto the ground; he rolled behind the marble headstone of Voldemort’s father, and he heard it crack as the curse missed him. 

“We are not playing hide-and-seek, Harry,” said Voldemort’s soft, cold voice, drawing nearer, as the Death Eaters laughed. “You cannot hide from me. Does this mean you are tired of our duel? Does this mean that you would prefer me to finish it now, Harry? Come out, _ Harry _…”

Harry remained ducked, hating the way his heart pounded when Voldemort pronounced his name, caressing the vowels on his tongue…

A blast of green light struck the ground next to him.

“Come out and play, then. . .” A dark chuckle sounded, low and decadent despite the high voice it belonged to. “It will be quick . . . it might even be painless . . . I would not know . . . I have never died. . . .” 

Harry sucked in a breath as Voldemort laughed at his own words, his memory flashing unbidden to another time and place.

_ “I’m going to sit here and watch you die, Harry Potter.” His lips curled softly once more, the prettiest thing in the chamber. “Take your time. I’m in no hurry.” _

Harry’s eyes squeezed shut, reminded painfully of a time when he’d found the Riddle’s morbid sense of humor endearing. 

And then he opened them once more, his chest twisting painfully at the realization that the man before him had never _ lost it. _

The next time Voldemort threw the Killing Curse, Harry was ready.

“_Avada Kedavra!” _

“_Expelliarmus! _”

Their spells met in a glorious battle of red and green. A golden thread connected their wands, regurgitating the ghosts of Voldemort’s kills. Harry saw Cedric and begged forgiveness. He met Bertha Jorkins, who urged him to continue fighting.

He met his parents.

“Do nothing!” Voldemort shrieked to the Death Eaters, and Harry saw his red eyes widened with astonishment at what was happening. “Do nothing unless I command you!” 

_ “We will distract him, Harry…” his mother said urgently, looking at him. “Then you must go, summon the portkey and leave…” _

Harry nodded, his shoulders shaking with the effort it took to maintain the spell. He followed the golden beam, noting how Voldemort’s long white fingers were gripping a wand that was vibrating violently. 

And in the midst of the unearthly and beautiful sound that had filled the air — a phoenix song, which Harry had only heard once before in the Chamber — his gaze caught on Voldemort’s form one final time.

Red eyes seared desperately into his own, cold fury and shock etched across his pale features. His limbs were shaking in their effort to hold onto his vibrating wand — the same limbs with which Voldemort had caressed himself. Harry watched him, listening as Voldemort emitted a sound of frustration — somewhere between a hiss and a growl — as the center of the golden thread was forced closer to his wand.

And it was this — this desperate struggle to survive — made Harry see Voldemort as _ human… _heart-breakingly, heart-stoppingly human, despite his monstrous form.

Like the thread between their wands, neither of them broke eye contact. As they continued to stare each other down, Harry began to notice all the similarities Voldemort shared with Tom. In his pale skin and aristocratic bone structure, in the elegant, forever-sarcastic curl of his mouth. In his movements and the way he taunted Harry.

For one horrifying second, all Harry could see _ was _Tom. And nothing could have stopped the words coming out of his mouth.

“_Gorgeous, _” Harry whispered breathlessly, continuing to stare straight back at him as his words echoed throughout the graveyard.

Red eyes widened in shock.

The golden thread shattered as darkness flooded back into the grave.

Voldemort’s wand sagged in his hands, the connection broken. His prophecy-sworn enemy was still staring at him with astonishment. 

But Harry was already spinning into action, his survival instincts kicking in. He grabbed Cedric’s body and cast a summoning charm at the trophy, and only then did Voldemort seem to break out of his trance.

“Stand aside! I will kill him! He is mine!” shrieked Voldemort, his red eyes wild with fury. He looked like an Impressionist painting — all fast, furious strokes of broken color. 

Harry caught the handle of the trophy, ripping his eyes from Voldemort’s form.

And the last thing he heard was the man’s scream of terrible fury — a raspy stream of chilling curses that made Harry’s own throat burn — as the Portkey sped him away in a whirl of wind and color.

. . .

Harry landed back on the grass inside the maze, his scar prickling dully on his forehead.

After a few moments, he grew aware of a deafening torrent of sound surrounding him from all sides. There were voices everywhere. Footsteps pounded as screams pierced the air — though none of them sounded quite like the one that had followed his disappearance from the graveyard.

Then a pair of hands seized him roughly and turned him over. 

“Harry! Harry!” 

He opened his eyes. 

Harry was looking up at the starry sky, and Albus Dumbledore was crouched over him. The dark shadows of a crowd of people pressed in around them, pushing nearer; he felt the ground beneath his head reverberating with their footsteps. 

He had come back to the edge of the maze.

“Harry—!”

Harry raised his free hand and seized Dumbledore’s wrist, while Dumbledore’s face swam in and out of focus. 

“He’s back,” Harry whispered raggedy, clutching Cedric’s dead body tightly to him. The vision of those red eyes was burned into his memory, so deeply ingrained in his thoughts it might have been burned into his soul. 

“He’s back. Voldemort.” 

“What’s going on? What’s happened?” The face of Cornelius Fudge appeared upside down over Harry; it looked white, appalled. “My God — Diggory!” it whispered. “Dumbledore — he’s dead!” 

The words were repeated, the shadowy figures pressing in on them gasped it to those around them. And then others shouted it — screeched it — into the night — 

“He’s dead!”

“Cedric Diggory! Dead!” 

“Harry, let go of him,” he heard Fudge’s voice say, and he felt fingers trying to pry him from Cedric’s limp body, but Harry wouldn’t let him go. 

Then Dumbledore’s face, which was still blurred and misted, came closer. “Harry, you can’t help him now. It’s over. Let go.” 

Over the next few hours, Harry sank in and out of consciousness. Color and screams echoed in his mind’s eye, and he was aware of his body being pulled and pushed through the air.

But he couldn’t muster the energy to fully leave oblivion, not until he felt the familiar pressure of a hand squeezing his shoulder.

“Harry? You’ll be okay, mate?”

A smaller hand grasped his own tightly.

“Harry! Please, just wake up. But also, get better first… ” 

And then, finally, came the memory of another voice, sibilant and seductive as it caressed the vowels of his name and fluttered around the _ ‘r’ _sound. 

_ “Harry Potter…” _

No, not a memory.

Harry shot up in bed, panting furiously as his scar burned.

Ron and Hermione crowded around him, their eyes brimming with worry and filled with unasked questions. But Harry clutched his head tightly, curling in on himself. He couldn’t think past the intruding voice in his mind.

_ “Such foolish tricks… and you dared to try them on me?” _

Harry shuddered as the voice grew low and decadent, as though whispering softly in his ear.

_ “Be prepared to taste your own poison.” _

The voice disappeared from his head like a lost connection, but the pain didn’t stop. Because now more than ever, every single memory of Voldemort shooting deadly curses at him — _ hateful, murderous words — _flooded back to Harry of its own accord. 

_ “Crucio!” _

Harry stumbled from the bed, and every step shot agony through his body. His throat was scorchingly hot, and suddenly he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think — the stinging of his scar had nothing, _ nothing _ on the way his throat was constricting on him, _ betraying _him —

_ “Avada Kedavra!” _

He put a hand against the wall near his bed, clutching at his throat and blinking back tears of pain. Harry held out an arm, warding against anyone who tried to come near him because he felt like he was going to be _ sick— _

_ “Stand aside! I will kill him! He is mine!” _

And with those words, a final vision of Voldemort ruthlessly tore its way into Harry’s mind. Red eyes wide with shock, miles of pale skin and delicate fingers coiled tightly in frustration, a cry of fury promising death to anyone who dared to claim what was _ his— _

_ He is mine. _

Harry threw up colorless flower petals all over the hospital-white floors.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very special thanks to nightmeadow for beta-ing! Enjoy! :)

Petals wouldn’t _ stop coming out of Harry’s mouth. _

Each heave burned his throat, like stomach acid traveling up his lungs. Harry could barely catch his breath before the next wave of nausea hit him, tightening his throat as a barrage of soft white petals vomited itself out of his mouth once more.

Gasps of horror sounded from behind him. He felt a warm hand tightening around his shoulder, and the person to whom it belonged was shouting something at the others in the room. But he couldn’t focus on anything except for the ugly feeling that rose repeatedly in his stomach, seemingly never ending.

Until it did. 

And for a moment, Harry could only stare at the scattering mess he’d made through blurry vision.

The petals were white_ , _he realized vaguely. Except some of the petals were blackened around the edge, and others were bloodstreaked. 

_ Blood. _That was enough to tear him from his trance, a sense of alarm ringing harshly in his head. Harry ripped his eyes from the mess to look back at Hermione and Ron.

“What is that?” Harry whispered, “Why am I throwing up…?”

He trailed off, registering the expressions of horror that greeted him.

Hermione had a hand clasped to her mouth, her eyes wide with unshed tears. Ron looked deathly pale, and behind him, McGonagall had stopped talking to stare silently at him. Even the normally bustling Pomphrey, who had been by his side as he’d vomited his stomach’s contents, was extremely subdued.

“..._ What?” _ Harry demanded impatiently, beginning to feel agitated. _ Why were they all staring? Why did nobody ever tell him anything—? _

“Who is it?” Ron whispered raggedly, a wild look beginning to appear in his eyes. “Who did this to you, who _ is it—” _

“Silence, Mr. Weasley.”

McGonagall had straightened up, her posture uncomfortably tense — as if preparing to go to war this very instant. Her eyes were firmly fixed on Harry as she spoke the next words, slowly and carefully.

“Harry, do you know what Hanahaki is?”

Harry narrowed his eyes but shook his head, still thinking. _ Hanahaki? _Sounded… foreign. 

A flicker of pain flashed briefly across McGonagall’s features before being wiped away as she sat down, primly folding her hands in her lap and continuing to look straight at him. At that, the dread that had been planted in Harry quickly began to take seed. 

“Hanahaki Disease,” McGonagall began tightly, “is an illness born from unrequited love, in which the victim coughs up flower petals that bloom in their heart and lungs — in the respiratory system.” A pause. “It’s cured once the victim’s affections are returned.”

Silence.

Harry slowly inhaled and exhaled, not daring to make a sound. His heart had already begun to pound. 

“...Well?” he asked eventually, swallowing dryly. “What’s the other cure?”

An even longer silence greeted him. He looked around at Hermione and Ron, their expressions answering him.

The words repeated themselves over and over, to the beat of his pounding heart — _ no cure, no cure, no cure— _

“So,” Harry rasped out quietly. “I just vomit flower petals until the end of my days?” He let out a hysterical bout of laughter, heavy with denial. “That’s… terribly inconvenient.”

Nobody said a word.

McGonagall’s voice was softer than ever when she continued. “The victim deteriorates over time, vomiting full flowers during the final stages of the disease until, eventually… dying by suffocation.”

She closed her eyes, swallowing painfully.

And then something terrible ignited in Harry. 

A flurry of rage and helplessness overwhelmed him all at once, tearing at his mind and crushing his palpitating chest. His lips began to tremble, almost as badly as his fingers — which threatened to rake down his face and leave bloody trails in their wake, much like the petals he could still feel _ clinging _ to his _ teeth— _

Scarlet, slitted eyes flashed in his mind’s eye.

Harry thrust his eyes into the palms of his hands and _ screamed. _

. . .

Needless to say, Fifth Year sucked.

For one, everyone thought Harry was a liar; no one believed Lord Voldemort had risen again.

But worse? Everyone knew he had Hanahaki. 

The Order had attempted to keep it under wraps. But come his fifth year — there was no disguising the random spells of petal-vomiting that would hit Harry in the middle of class, during Potions or in the middle of Transfiguration, sending him to the infirmary.

People talked.

Soon enough, it was splashed across the news; reporters constantly attempted to talk to Harry whenever he went to Hogsmeade. And when they couldn’t get to him, they attacked him instead… publishing half-assed speculation about who the person of his unwanted affection could possibly be.

(Lord Voldemort was probably _ rejoicing _ right now _ . _)

Only five people knew the identity of the being who had put him in this state. And two of them were sitting right next to him.

“Er, Harry,” Ron began cautiously as they were seated at the Great Hall at breakfast. “You might not want to… read the news today.”

Harry, who was mid-bite and halfway through a plate of eggs, inevitably snatched the newspaper that an owl had dropped onto their table to skim the headline —

BOY-WHO-LIVED OR BOY-WHO-LOVED?

— and dropped it back onto the table, his mouth curling with disgust.

It was a rather interesting article, if one ignored the highly tabloid-like nature of it. It discussed how selfish the Chosen One was, to put his own wants and the needs of the British Wizarding World. It proposed that if the Chosen One really cared, _ surely _he would simply choose to fall out of love instead of putting half of the Wizarding World in a panic.

And then, shockingly, featuring in this week’s _ Potter Possibility — _a section that speculated weekly on the person behind Harry’s affliction — was none other than Draco Malfoy.

Fucking _ hell. _

Harry burst out in loud laughter.

Later that day, right before Defense, Draco Malfoy and his goons entered the classroom and began whistling and jeering at him.

“Got something to say to me, Potter?” Malfoy questioned gleefully.

“Oh, for sure,” Harry replied easily, leaning back in his chair and ignoring the cautioning look Hermione gave him. “If I had to choose between the Great Squid and you, I’d choose the squid.” He grinned viciously. “Every. Time.”

Harry smirked as Malfoy reddened with embarrassment. The blonde boy turned away and began making his way to the other side of the classroom as Umbridge promptly entered, her heels clicking ominously.

His good mood slipped away rather quickly as Umbridge began to pick on him.

“... So, Mr. Potter,” she started after clearing her throat for the tenth time, looking at him expectantly. “Don’t you have something to share with the class?”

Harry leveled her with an even stare.

The pink-attired lady cleared her throat once again.

“Tell us,” she said softly, “who the person behind your sickness is.” 

When Harry remained silent, Umbrige tutted. “Oh, Mr. Potter — it is in your best interest to inform the Ministry of these kinds of things.”

He crossed his arms — the combative words _ “And why is that? When has the Ministry ever helped me?” _ready on the tip of his tongue —

“Oh,” Harry said, shrugging casually. “Well, it’s Voldemort, you see?” 

The silent class burst into laughter… with the exception of Hermione and Ron, who could merely gape at him, shocked by Harry’s gall.

Harry gestured to his forehead. “Also, he’s the reason my scar keeps reopening… even more so now that he’s _ back—” _

He was silenced, once again, by a furious, cutting remark. And hours later, he emerged from her classroom with bleeding hands, ‘_ I must not tell lies’ _fully-etched and scarred into his dusky skin.

Hermione was all over him the second he entered the dark, empty Gryffindor Commons, with Ron finding them soon after.

“Harry!” she cried quietly. “You can’t just _say _things like that. Keep up this — this running joke that Voldemort is the reason behind your disease and people might actually believe it!”

“_ Hermione _,” Harry replied with clear exasperation. He was too drained — of both blood and energy — to talk about this right now.“I’m sure the day they actually believe I fell for that monster will be when pigs fly.”

Hermione pursed her lips. “Pigs technically _ can _fly if spelled—” 

“Not my point.” Harry waved his hand. “My point is, it makes zero sense to fall in love with a madman who’s tried to kill me all my life… ”

“... So it’s a pretty funny joke if you don’t consider Harry’s actual feelings!” Ron finished with forced brightness.

“Exactly.” Harry nodded, finding a comfortable sofa near the fireplace and settling down with a book from the side table. “Now, let’s just leave this topic alone for the rest of this week?”

Ron raised his hands. “Yeah, of course mate—”

“No,” Hermione bit out.

A tense silence dominated the Commons for a few moments.

“Please, Harry,” Hermione whispered, her brown eyes smarting with pain. “Let’s just _ talk _about it for once. I know you’re hurting—”

Harry stood up abruptly, the book falling from his lap.

“_ Oh, _ yes,” Harry said lightly, his mouth pulling into a self-deprecating sneer. “Would you like to hear yet again the morbid tale of how I fell for a horrible, unfeeling, manipulative _ object _?”

“Not just an object,” Hermione clarified emptily. “An object containing the essence of Lord Voldemort.”

“Of Tom Riddle,” Harry corrected.

Hermione’s eyes flashed. “It is a ridiculous notion to consider Tom Riddle and Lord Voldemort two separate people when they are one and the same!”

Harry stalked towards her, crossing his arms and scowling down at her. Ron stood in between them, an untouched human barrier.

“One is human, one is clearly not,” he enunciated sharply, locking eyes with her. “Tom Riddle is _ dead. _”

“They share the same soul, mind, and to get technical — DNA,” Hermione crossed her arms, glaring up at him. “Honestly, face the facts. You are in love with Lord Voldemort, and accepting that is an important step in —”

“WHY SHOULD I ACCEPT FEELINGS I DO NOT WANT!” Harry bellowed, his body shoving against Ron’s and causing Hermione to recoil.

“You’ll never be able to get over him if you don’t!” Hermione cried.

Harry flinched back with a hiss, turning his back on everyone and kicking the sofa.

“There is _ nothing to _accept.”

Hermione’s lips thinned. “The presence of Hanahaki says otherwise—”

“Hermione!” Ron exclaimed, putting his hands on her shoulders. “Stop! Let a man breathe!”

He turned to look at Harry, nodding in his direction. “I’m sure he’ll come to us when he feels ready, yeah?”

Harry nodded silently back, before sitting down on the sofa and numbly reaching for the book he’d dropped. He allowed his eyes to glaze over on the pages, unable to focus. And it wasn’t long before Hermione and Ron had joined him on the sofa, filling the silence with talk about random assignments and events that were occurring soon.

If they saw the tears of frustration and hopelessness dripping down Harry’s cheeks, they showed no sign of it.

. . .

_ “You’ll have to kill me,” whispered Sirius. _

_ “Undoubtedly I shall in the end,” said the cold voice. “But you will fetch it for me first, Black… You think you have felt pain thus far? Think again…” _

_ The voice grew gleeful. _

_ “We have hours ahead of us and nobody to hear you scream.” _

_ And then a scream pierced Harry’s ears and he— _

He woke up.

Harry’s scar was on fire, his heart pounding. The scream he’d woken up to had been none other than his own, piercing the air of the Great Hall. Professors had come up to him in concern, but he’d finally managed to brush them off.

All he knew was that he had to find Ron and Hermione.

Within seconds, Harry was running towards the upper floors, pushing students out of the way until he saw them.

“Harry!” said Hermione at once, looking very frightened. “What happened? We just heard about how you slept in the Great Hall earlier and woke up screaming—”

“Where have you been?” Ron demanded, crossing his arms.

“Voldemort’s got Sirius,” Harry breathed.

Hermione’s jaw dropped and Ron’s eyes went comically wide.

“_What?” _

“How d’you —?”

“I saw it just now.” Harry ran a hand through his disheveled hair. “When I fell asleep during the exam…”

He explained everything he’d seen in his vision, watching as their faces turned white.

“... And we need to get to the Department of Mysteries, so we can rescue Sirius!” Harry said frantically.

_ You might even get to see Voldemort, _whispered a small inner voice excitedly. And then horror and self-disgust overcame him at the thought, forcing Harry to push it away completely.

“Wait!” Hermione held up her hand, narrowing her eyes in thought. “Hold on, it just doesn’t make sense. There’s no way Voldemort got into the Ministry of Magic without anybody realizing he was there! Especially at five o’clock in the afternoon—”

“I _ saw _it!” Harry gritted out.

“In a dream!” she countered.

A wave of prickly anger swept through Harry’s body. “They’re not normal dreams!” he shouted in her face. He won the argument that followed, eventually convincing them and the other Gryffindors to come to the Ministry.

… It was far too late when he realized that they _had _been normal dreams.

“SIRIUS!” Harry bellowed, “SIRIUS!”

Guilt and rage battled with one another inside of him, threatening to tear him apart. All he could see was Sirius’s body disappearing into the veil, that split second when he’d been suspended in mid-air… 

_ And he hadn’t been able to save him. _

“He can’t come back, Harry,” said Lupin, his voice breaking as he struggled to contain Harry. “He can’t come back, because he’d d—”

“HE — IS — NOT — DEAD!” roared Harry, his chest exploding in agony. “SIRIUS!”

The rest of the battle was continuous movement from then on, pointless bustling and flashes of more spells. To Harry, it was meaningless noise; the deflected curses flying past them did not matter. Nothing mattered except seeing Sirius emerge from the archway once more, shaking back his dark hair and eager to reenter the battle.

And then long black curls caught his eye, and fire burned through his limbs once more.

“I’ll kill her,” Harry promised raggedly, brandishing his wand sharply. “I’ll _ kill her—” _

He finally tore himself from Lupin’s grip and ran towards the door he’d seen Bellatrix leaving through. She was almost at the telephone lift at the other end of the hall. But then she looked back and, upon seeing him sprinting towards her, gave a wide grin.

She aimed a spell at him.

Harry dodged, gritting his teeth, and stayed crouched behind the statues as she aimed a few more.

“_ Come out, come out, little Harry!” _Bellatrix called in her mock-baby voice, which echoed off the polished wooden floors. “What did you come after me for, then? I thought you were here to avenge my dear cousin!”

“I AM!” Harry shouted angrily, and a score of ghostly Harrys seemed to chorus _ I am! I am! I am! _all around the room.

“Aaaaah…” Bellatrix’s voice pitched higher in mock sorrow, her black heels clicking closer every second. “Did you _ love _him, little baby Potter?”

Hatred rose in Harry such that he’d never known before. He flung himself out from behind the fountain and bellowed, “_ Crucio!” _

Bellatrix screamed, falling to her feet. And while she was not writhing or shrieking in pain the way Neville had, she was no longer laughing either.

“Never used an Unforgivable Curse before, have you, boy?” she yelled, her baby voice gone. “I’ll show you how it’s done, shall I? I’ll give you a lesson.”

Harry ducked again as Bellatrix tossed a few spells in his direction, fuming and plotting in silence. There had to be a way he could provoke her… catch her off guard, anything…

“Potter, I am giving you one last chance!” Bellatrix screeched. “Give me the prophecy — roll it out toward me now — and I may spare your life!”

“Well, you’re going to have to kill me then, because it’s gone!” Harry shouted — and as he shouted it, pain seared across his forehead. His scar was on fire, and he felt a surge of fury that was quite unconnected with his own rage. 

Because the only emotion _ he _was feeling was vengeance, the warmth of it wreaking down his spine.

“And he knows!” Harry said, before giving a laugh hysterical enough to match Bellatrix’s. He stared at her triumphantly. “Your dear old mate Voldemort knows it’s gone! He’s not going to be happy with you, is he?”

Heels skidded violently across the marble floors.

“What? What do you mean?” she cried, and for the first time there was fear in her voice. Harry closed his eyes and drank it in as he calmly explained.

“The prophecy smashed while I was trying to help Neville up the stairs earlier, after you tortured him. What do you think Voldemort will say about that, then?”

And now, his scar began to burn again, searing more than ever… the pain of it making his eyes stream…

“LIAR!” she shrieked, but he could hear the terror behind her anger. “YOU’VE GOT IT, POTTER, AND YOU WILL GIVE IT TO ME — _ Accio Prophecy! ACCIO PROPHECY!” _

Harry laughed again, knowing it would incense her. The pain was building in his head so badly he thought his skull might burst. He waved his empty hand from behind the one-eared goblin and withdrew it quickly as she sent another jet of green light flying at him.

“Nothing there!” he shouted. “Nothing to summon! It smashed and nobody heard what it said, tell your boss that —”

“No!” she screamed, her voice breaking. “It isn’t true, you’re lying — MASTER, I TRIED, I TRIED — DO NOT PUNISH ME —”

“Don’t waste your breath!” Harry yelled, his eyes screwed up against the pain in his scar, now more terrible than ever. “He can’t hear you from here!”

“Can’t I, Potter?” said a high, cold voice.

Harry opened his eyes, his chest thudding.

Tall and hooded, Lord Voldemort had appeared in the middle of the hall, his wand pointing at a paralyzed Harry.

“So, you smashed my prophecy?” Voldemort said softly, staring at Harry with those pitiless scarlet eyes, glimmering like rubies in the dim candlelight. He was a powerful sight to behold, and Harry found he couldn’t look away, even as his enemy drifted closer…

_ Focus, _whispered a voice in his head in vain.

“No, Bella,” Voldemort spoke after a pause, “He is not lying… I see the truth looking at me from within his worthless mind.” His pale, gaunt face fell into the shadows. “Months of preparation and effort, and my Death Eaters have let Harry Potter thwart me again…”

“Master, I am so sorry—” Bellatrix sobbed.

“Be _ quiet _, Bella,” Voldemort hissed dangerously. “I shall deal with you in a moment. Do you think I have entered the Ministry to hear your sniveling apologies?”

“Master—”

Voldemort’s eyes flashed murderously.

“Begone!”

At his last word, Bella disappeared in a black swirl of her cloak, leaving the two of them alone.

Harry closed his eyes briefly, his fear spiking as Voldemort’s undivided attention fell upon him. He dared not even breathe as light footsteps echoed across the marbled floors, the sound forever engraving itself into Harry’s mind.

_ Breathe, _Harry told himself, as he slowly raised his head to meet the gaze from his nightmares and wildest, unspeakable dreams.

Red eyes were trained upon him, appearing emotionless despite the fury still pounding Harry’s forehead.

“_Harry Potter… _” 

Harry swallowed dryly at the sibilant, elegant pronunciation of his name, pressing himself against the cold, marble elf behind him.

Voldemort tilted his head lazily, continuing to gaze at him in an indecipherable manner. 

“I used to think — dream, though only in the metaphorical sense — how _ wonderful _ it would be, if only Harry Potter would do my job and kill himself.”

Harry stared, unable to fully absorb the cruelty of those words when accompanied by that soft, high voice, one that reminded him very much of Tom’s tinkling laughter… 

The pacing stopped. Voldemort paused inches from his kneeled form, bringing him back to reality, and Harry’s eyes widened at the closeness.

“And then, to my amazement, I heard that the Chosen One was dying…” 

Voldemort’s eyes began to gleam with unmistakable amusement.

“... Dying from a _broken_ _heart._”

Harry flinched as amused peals of laughter erupted from the taller man’s form, echoing across the marbled room like harsh church bells.

“So _ weak, _” Voldemort said gleefully, staring him down Harry. His mouth curled into a serene smile, as if he had not a care in the world. “So unlike me. I, who have mastered Death himself, mastered magic and my own humanity… ”

Harry stared at Voldemort’s smile with half-lidded eyes. _ Merlin, _the man was just so pleased with himself.

_ Adorable, _whispered a tiny voice in his head. And then a sour taste flooded his mouth as the self-disgust and hatred hit him once again, because why the fuck was Harry even thinking—

A pale hand gripped Harry’s jaw out of nowhere, jerking his face upwards to an uncomfortable angle.

“... And Dumbledore has the audacity to believe _ you _ can defeat me?” Voldemort whispered, his red eyes burning in a mixture of curiosity and revulsion. “You? A boy who will die from unrequited _ love?_”

Harry barely breathed as Voldemort stared down at him, no longer indecipherably, but with unbearable hatred. His throat began to feel itchy and blocked, filling with the familiar soft substance that was making it harder and harder to _ breathe— _

Harry tried to jerk away, only for those spidery pale fingers to catch in his hair, clawing their way down to the base of his neck.

“Do _not,_” Voldemort warned. “Do not dare think you can get away from me, with or without mind games.” His eyes glinted with faint derision, no doubt recalling how Harry had gotten away in the graveyard. “To think _you _could fool me with such tactics… ”

Harry flushed, his mouth opening slightly to — defend himself? Apologize?

Either way, his mind blanked when the hand on his neck painfully pulled upwards again, this time forcing him to stand. That tantalizingly pale, gaunt face was suddenly all Harry could see, contrasting harshly with the darkness surrounding them…

“You are a _ fool _ ,” Voldemort hissed in his face, loathing etched into the harsh curve of his mouth. The grip on Harry’s neck tightened, fueling the burning sensation in his throat. “I should kill you right now, it would be so _ easy— _”

Voldemort froze mid-sentence as Harry vomited, the painful weight in his throat finally and blessedly lessening.

Soft white petals fell from his dry lips, fluttering to the marble black floor. _ Pretty, _Harry thought dazedly, as he observed the contrast between his mouth’s contents and his dark surroundings. Nevermind that they were blackened, bloodstained, flawed in some way; there was something almost artistic about the fallen petals, which he’d never really appreciated until now… 

“How annoying,” said a soft voice beside him. “That even as _ I _am threatening you, some other being has this kind of control over you…”

Hysterical laughter threatened to bubble out of Harry at those words — _ only Lord Voldemort, _a small inner voice said — only for him to cough up more flower petals instead.

Without warning, cold, pale fingers swiped at Harry’s mouth, picking at the few petals that had stuck to his lips and leaving a contrarily hot sensation in their wake.

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the petals, assessing them.

“Queen of the Night,” he whispered.

Harry blinked in confusion. “What?”

“The name of the flower you’re vomiting,” Voldemort tilted his head back, continuing to stare at the petals. _“Epiphyllum Oxypetalum. _It’s technically a species of cactus. It only blooms at night, usually past midnight…”

Those scarlet, too-intelligent eyes darted down to his.

“And once a year, if at all.”

Voldemort stepped back from Harry, cleaning his blood-stained fingers with a nonverbal swish.

“Does that mean anything?” Harry asked, hastily wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “They’re just flower petals—”

“The type of flower reflects on your chances of survival,” Voldemort murmured, a triumphant smile slowly crawling across his unnatural face. “And given yours, love is unlikely to bloom at all.”

Harry flinched despite the familiar knowledge, his throat clogging up again. Hearing it out loud still _ hurt. _

“Don’t worry,” Voldemort continued, his red eyes now flashing with inhuman, murderous intent. Bloodthirstiness was evident in his flaring nostrils and slightly glistening mouth. “I’ll spare you that suffering and end it _ right now. _”

He drew his wand once more and pointed at Harry, his tall, imposing form demanding unwavering attention.

“I have nothing more to say to you, Potter,” he said quietly. “You have irked me too often, for far too long. AVADA KEDAVRA!”

Right then, the headless golden statue of the wizard in the fountain sprung alive, crashing onto the floor and causing the spell to bounce off its chest.

“What —?” said Voldemort, staring around. And then he breathed, “Dumbledore!”

Harry looked behind him to see Dumbledore standing in front of the golden gates, raising other statues to life and sending them towards Voldemort. One of the statues thrust Harry backward, away from the fight, as Dumbledore advanced on Voldemort and a centaur statue cantered around them both.

“It was foolish to come here tonight, Tom,” said Dumbledore calmly. “The Aurors are on their way—”

“By which time I shall be gone, and you — dead!” Voldemort spat, sending a Killing Curse at Dumbledore which missed.

As Dumbledore and Voldemort dueled, Harry fell to the floor, both his arms holding him up as he coughed up the last of his petals. Spells of dizziness and nausea overcame afterwards, he could barely see straight.

And the last sight he saw before sinking into subconsciousness, blood dripping down his chin, was Voldemort stepping on Harry’s bloodstained petals as he dueled… staining his untouchable black cloak red and white.


End file.
